The Art of War: A Clash of races
by Lullaby of Hearts
Summary: Shikamaru Nara is a 1st ranked gamer in Japan. His brilliant mind is an object of interest for many famous companies. One day, he receives an invitation to partake in a humanitarian action launched by the Uchiha's PC company. He enters the virtual world inside which 1 million players are trapped. In the insane game of death he falls in love, but a single survivor comes out.


_**The Art of War: Clash of races**_

_**by Lullaby of Hearts**_

_******~X~**_

**Prologue: September 30th, 2032**

_**~X~**_

He walks through the heavy rain, steady and calm, with nothing but a book in leather cover pressed to his side. Men stare at him as he wanders across the road, with only a slight nod of his head directed at the young driver who stopped to let him pass.

Shikaku Nara suddenly runs, sound of his heavy sighs deafened by the splattering of rain. With every bend of his knees man presses the item tighter to himself with a fear of falling. His every step was uncertain, like a stumble of a newborn fawn, the ground beneath felt so fragile and distant; Shikaku wondered if he was walking on the clouds. The man's mind wended some distant realms.

It was a cold day in September_,_ like the one he had re-lived dozen times; a sunless afternoon when every clock in the country had struck fourteen.

He shivered at the sound of children's laughter as if struck by lighting; an image of kids running in hordes seemed to still be carved in his retinas. He had frowned a lot that day, at every voice and call he heard and every word they uttered sounded like that man's calls. Bewildered, he raised his head to stare at the Tokyo TV tower remembering the blue, green and red that shone and figures that moved. He could almost hear the merry voice of Shinomiya Rei, a beautiful reporter who often babbled nonsense, a woman who had been reporting the news of the opening ceremony reserved for the day.

Shikaku hurried down the street. He wasn't a bit surprised when he discovered the air still exuded of fresh taiyaki; for a moment he remembered the enthusiastic look in his little boy's eyes each time he brought him that special treat. He had stopped, staring at the narrow letters with a smile. His fingers worked on the wallet, pulling it out and counting yen, only to see it slip through his grip.

The scream of boys from across the street caused his mind to realize, as he bent to raise the soaked wallet. Confused, he stared. They ran and played, jeered and cheered at one another, children no older than his son. One of them strongly resembled the boy he used to pass on the street back in the days, on his usual walk from parking lot to work.

_It can't be,_he thought, running again, _He can't be here._

His footsteps died away as he reached the street's end.

The castle of glass stood, unfaltering, bigger and bigger every day. He drank in every window, memorised every scent that had ever reeked inside those premises - for it was the place old man spent most of his days. Each day he would instantly reach for the mobile phone inside his jacket as his being grew numb with fear. Sudden blooms of coldness would caress his spine in creeping waves whilst he waited for a beep to scare his insanity away. Today was no different.

_Two years had passed_, a thought would hit him like a bullet when he would see the date written by the doors; _September 9th, 2032_. His tongue would curse them all under breath in the same emotionless tone that seemed to dull the pain.

He pushed the door.

Security guard would never miss his entrance. Shikaku recognised a young, raven haired boy who seemed to believe smiles could lighten their days. _Poor kid, _he contemplated as he passed him by and pressed the buttons for elevator to come. _He doesn't know what a fool he is._

The 3rd floor was no different from the first, an ignoramus would think. However, those who knew the stories that dwelt inside those four walls would sell their soul to the devil so they never had to relieve those sights again. Shikaku Nara was one of those men.

On the September 9th 2032, it was surprisingly silent.

His eyes traveled the uncountable number of capsules that somehow managed to fit inside those walls. Heads of the living never turned to utter their greetings, every pair of sore eyes feared a second spent staring at something else could take away the life of their loved one, as if their gazes were what kept them alive. No man wanted to miss his child's last breath.

Shikaku passed the capsules lined on the left from the great crystal door. He looked at every sleeping face that laid in the bed of cold metal, breathing slowly, barely seen. He welcomed the beeps that fueled every person in this room with hopeless hope. Sound of his feet striking the marble floor made mothers feel uneasy for it silenced the appliances and cut through the air of desperation and anguish; to ease their pain he decreases his pace.

_He won't run anywhere._

Nara Shikaku stops, his heart skipping a beat, when he sees an empty capsule. Tenth this week. He recalls the boy who dreamt there, and his single mother, a woman he found hard not to notice. She would come each day around the noon, carrying a stack of books and freshly arranged flowers. He would often watch her as she decorated the cabinets next to her son's head; the room would always smell of roses and variety of flowers Shikaku couldn't name. She would laugh, hum and talk as if her boy could hear her indeed; a woman with a faith no human could crumble.

He recalled a white December day, around Christmas, when a mother of a boy who had passed screamed her fears and accusations at the pretty lady. Tall woman didn't even shiver. Shikaku observed the movements of her lips, how they curved in a sympathetic smile that reached her eyes.

"_If we don't believe...who will?"_she had said. No other words were said that day.

She had made them all doubt their own selves, even Shikaku. They have all carried hope, but none of them in truth hoped. He had prayed every day to all the gods he knew to grant him a chance to see his son open his eyes and live again, but no prayer held meaning. He had doubted it all inside his soul, refused to feel any glimmer of hope yet hope was all he had wished for. A single bead of hope.

Shikaku wished he could have at least been there to shake the hand of a woman who gave them all the greatest gift none of those white wraiths did. _Hope. _

He passes by the capsule soon to be removed. He finds him there - and tears almost prevail.

He laid there, in the cold bed with nothing but monotonous beeps as his lullaby, a porcelain doll that felt feeble at the touch. Shikaku wonders if he shivers under the white that covers his naked body, and as soon as he thinks about it, his mind is corrupted by thoughts of all the weight he had lost, reduced to a mere ghost wrapped in the white sheet, a dreadful sight. He fears if the cloth is a burden under which he'll crumble. His arms are nothing but bones covered with a thin layer of skin that a touch of air could damage. At last he comes to understand Yoshino's feelings; his woman had died the day she had seen his handsome face wither away. He remembers every detail, feelings that choked him as he realized he did not recognize his own flesh and blood. Yoshino had cried until there were no tears left.

Nevertheless, he knew she broke her oath, one with which she had committed herself to stay away from this building to save them all of any further pain. She would sneak out in the early morning and return around the noon with red eyes and runny nose.

"I was out walking."she would say and disappear inside the bathroom. Troublesome woman believed her sobs would stay trapped inside the room, but they echoed the walls. Her sadness was always his own.

His knees have finally betrayed him, he sank into the chair next to something that was supposed to be his son. One of the seven thousand that still lasted out of million children that have been put to sleep back in the day.

He had come home hours too early, tired and hungry, left his keys on the commode and hung his cap. His nostrils greedily inhaled the air, yearning for lunch to be reheated, however, the smile he wore was disrobed the moment he heard her sobs. _Another fight__,_ he had thought_._ Groaning, he wended towards the boy's room.

He had opened the door with a loud thud, only to meet with the darkness and Yoshino's crystal-filled eyes. He gazed at the woman as she sobbed out words: "He...he's gone!"

He ran like an animal driven by the urge to protect what he holds the most dear, he searched every single room, blinded by rage, and Yoshino wailed, calling his name.

"Shikamaru!"he hollered as he stepped inside the kitchen. It was empty, as a part of him had expected it to be, but what made him shiver was the sight of a single piece of paper left unfolded on the table. A piece of paper which's stamp he would recognise anywhere, even in the wildest of dreams. Madara's letter and Shikamaru's words.

_September 30th, 2030_, it wrote.

_I'm sorry...I'm sorry._

For two years he carries it inside the pocket, pressed to his heart, the last words his son will ever write. Even though he believed he finally had hope, part of Shikaku knew the boy he remembered died that 30th September. He had wished countless times he never received that piece of paper sent to him in golden envelope, to acknowledge him as the number one gamer in Japan. He had promised him the night before the so-called humanitarian action took place, he had promised he wouldn't go. Shikaku should have known.

He reminisces the times he had called those games of his useless and troublesome, with a bitter laugh of a mad man. _Those games won't determine your future, _he would shout at night, _They won't save you at any point in life._ It almost pained him how wrong he was. Dozens of games he had played are exactly what keeps him alive, those games are what gives the man the right to hope.

Uchiha's pc company took lives of millions of kids that day. _A humanitarian action_, Madara had always claimed, for all the fatherless children and young people in need of special care; nothing but a perfect wrap up to keep the truth hidden. Even so, his words have touched hearts of children all over the world and thus that of his foolish kid that ran away from home to face sure death.

_He could've been a lawyer, _he spats at himself. _He could've been alive and well if only you didn't tell him about the horrific of the game. If only you had solved the Uchiha case..._

He takes out the book in leather cover he hid inside his jacket for all this time, and opens it under the dim light. Drawings of all of Shikamaru's favorite game heroes feel like a slap to Shikaku's face. He violently turns pages and pages, until he reaches the very end.

_"September 30th 2030,"_Shikaku reads for the skeleton to hear. "_I'm sorry...I'm sorry. I hope you'll understand, one day..."_

After it, there is no stopping to tears.


End file.
